


today's another day to find you

by noble69



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunters, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Background Relationships, Blood and Gore, Character Study, Drama, Gangs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Redemption, Slow Burn, early 1900s, i guess, no beta read rip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24278536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noble69/pseuds/noble69
Summary: Wash thought he would rot in prison. That he would be forgotten for the rest of time. He was strangely okay with that. He had burned that monster's work to the ground and hadn’t regretted it since.He thought he would be in prison, until he was set free to hunt down a man he thought dead, a man he had loved.Now he doesn’t know what to think.*title changed from (means to an end)*
Relationships: AI Program Epsilon | Leonard Church/Agent Washington, Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Frank "Doc" DuFresne & Agent Washington, Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be a journey hahaha 0-0
> 
> also, I changed the summary. lets get ittt.

The saloon’s doors slam open with an unexpected bang. Customers turn and sneer at the newcomer on cue, their drinks- dirtied cups and horribly fermented alcohol- clutched in scarred hands as they all take the time to stare. The bartender hardly spares a glance as he idly rubs a washcloth to the interior of a drinking dish.

The newcomer, decked in a long black coat- dusty from the texan dirt, strides in with his revolver clutched in his hands, offering the customers a second of eye contact. Steel grey piercing under the shroud of his furrowed brows, a horrible glint flashing its true colors briefly- something merdurious, feral- before his opponent turns away. Each and every customer averts their eyes, their lives continuing on. Without anyone standing in the newcomer's way, his hands remain clean from anymore spilled blood.

A man on a mission is not to be trifled with. 

Customers part for him, like the red sea, making a path leading to the bar’s counters. The newcomers' weapons clink in the silence, his rifle slung on his back glaring under the artificial light in the saloon, blood speckling the barrel of its long snout. Many things allude to the crimson mark. 

The bartender offers his apathetic gaze, the cup and cloth gripped in a way that would suggest anything other than apathy. His mismatched eyes- honey brown and emerald green- search the newcomer’s form with a mask of uncare. His eye, the green one, twitches once. 

“You here for revenge?” The bartender asks, shifting to have one side of his hips resting against the bars counter, no doubt prepared to snatch the slug shot hidden behind the wood separating them. 

The newcomer glares, steel gaze darkening like a storm. The sky clears instantaneously, the clouds drifting but not totally gone. 

“No,” he’s honest.

The bartender frowns for a moment, dropping the act to regard the newcomer with a thick brow before relaxing his shoulders. He’s still ready to shoot the man. 

“Then get out of my bar. It’s bad for business.” He huffs, continuing to rub at the sparkling glass. The cup is clean, the newcomer intends to get his answers.

He breaths out a chuckle, a windy sarcastic sound, a broken laugh out of broken lungs. He shakes his head and scowls at the bartender. He doesn’t even own the bar. The bar is shit and they both know it. 

The bartender tenses and glares at the man, a worried frown tugging at his lips. His bluff is called and the mask slips. He doesn't bother trying to hide the hand resting close to the gun, despite being told there is no revenge taking place. The newcomer isn’t worried if he pulls the slug shot on him either way.

“What the hell, Wash? What the fuck do you want?” 

The newcomer, Wash, shakes his head. His blond hair catches light in the swivel, glinting like a warning. 

Wash’s eyes settle on the bartender, both of them clashing for intimidation- one of them never stood a chance.

“I want to know where you’re hiding him.”

The saloon quiets further than it already was, ears reaching to drink up the drama. Wash pays them no mind. He stares at the increasingly flustered bartender, cutting into the man with a stare, digging deep for an answer. 

The bartender squirms, mutters a ‘fuck this.’

“I can tell you that he isn’t here, the blue idiot ran off with him.”

Wash tilts his head down, rubbing his finger on the trigger. He sinks his teeth into his lips momentary before looking at the bartender. 

“Caboose? Where did they go?”

The mask is pulled on again, his eyes harder. Regret morphs his form as he slumps further. 

“Why do you wanna know?” he mutters, taking a gamble.

Wash bites the inside of his mouth, blood oozing from the consequences of impatience. He slams his rifle on the counter, the dried blood flaking off onto the polished wood. Blood from point blank. The bartender flinches backwards, the slug shot clattering to the floor in his mistake. The customers jolt simultaneously. Wash leans in.

“Or you’re going to die next. Grif.” He growls darkly.

‘Next,’ alludes to a lot as well, linked to a shot ringing for miles- hours ago outside of town, Wash asking the same questions. The newcomer is simply tired of walking in circles. 

“And then I'll go after the rest of them until I get what I want.”

Grif’s eyes widen, gulping down tangible fear. “You’re crazy, you know that.”

“Maybe,” Wash admits, “I just want some fucking peace for once.”

The irony of his statement is that chaos is a means to an end, death is a means to an end- to get his peace. The newcomer is simply tired of people using him.

A mixture of expressions cross Grif’s face. Fear, confusion, disgust, sympathy-surprisingly, the in betweens as well. Grif’s face settles on anger, although weak, “for all I know, they went west.”

West. Hardly anything considered ‘civilization’ remained in the west, crime resides in the west, monsters worse than Wash resides in the west. He wonders briefly, why did Caboose go west?

Nothing is left for them there. Nothing but death. Wash needs him alive. 

Without another word, he drags his rifle away. Turning heel, he strides out of the saloon, confidant he won’t catch a bullet from the coward.

The customers stumble out of his way, fear and worry evident in their drunken wide eyes. Silently, he pushes the saloon doors open, disappearing into the dark night.

West. So the goose chase continues.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: blood, death and violence

The sky was unnaturally grey, gloomy and dark from the mines or the weather. The clouds hung low and fat.

Valhalla sat even more miserable under its sad hood. Once Wash stepped one foot out of the train station he could see the whole town with one glance. A short strip of dirt road housed an abandoned looking store- windows chipped or broken, half its door caved in from the bottom- a small doctor's office with bullet holes lodged into it’s yellow stained wood, and a saloon sitting across the street- in even worse conditions than the only other main buildings. 

Small residencies, falling apart or torn to literal pieces, dotted the surrounding area. The ones closer to the main street seemed to be in, questionably, better conditions. 

The cluster of buildings could pass for a ghost town if there wasn’t anyone living here, and what few people did live here looked to be close to death. The stench of their bodies rotted the air as the newcomer made his way to the saloon, bloodshot eyes- twitching with worry- were glued to him. A woman in the alley between the store and the clinic cowered into herself when slate grey caught her staring, the child under her arm shivering, and the newcomer tore his gaze away. 

Dirt kicked into the air with every step, more and more eyes- a few, but a strong presence of sleepless sclera burning into his form- watched his every move. Watched as his hand hovers over his weapon, the glinting metal of a knife or gun decisive in their end. Watched as he hunched further, shadows darkening his face like the gloomy sky. Avert their eyes when another meets their gaze with a challenge. Ruthlessness scratching at the surface with every second, waiting to strike the weary souls- the anxiousness of a cornered animal. 

The newcomer walked with wary confidence, with worry on his mind, hidden from the fear and rot surrounding him- even with the nervous shift of his supply bag.

The people finally look away when he disappears inside the saloon.

The door swings shut with a groan and no one even glances at him. The customers, men with soot marks on their faces and clothing, their hair in varying degrees of disheveled and greasy, move no muscle. They hardly react to his arrival, aside from an indifferent swig from their dirtied cup or a soft sigh. 

His footsteps are thunderous in the dark saloon. A saloon so quiet and cold, nothing and everything like the world outside. Wash cannot decide which one he’d rather suffer in. 

The bartender leans on the counter, his head hung so low between his hunched shoulders that Wash thought him dead. 

He snapped up after a short knock on the wood, his eyes a wild charcoal that blink rapidly. Bruises line his face, a crescent shape leading from his chin to his brow, a black and purple face gruesome under the miniscule light from the hazy windows. His inky hair is ruffled and shiny, long from time and curling under his ears. Sleepless nights plague the shadows under his eyes and malnourishment sinks his cheek in, his body thin as well. 

“I need to ask you a few questions.” Wash breaks the silence like a clap, a startling sound.

The bartender’s face grows with surprise, his mouth hanging open with disbelief and his skin paling from his otherwise olive complexion. Wash frowns at the overreaction, shifting as a chill climbs up his exposed forearms. He had rolled his sleeves up to prepare for warmer weather, but the heavy clouds blocked the sun outside. Wash wonders how much worse it can get from here. 

“Me?” The bartender asks, pointing at himself with raised brows, “You talkin’ to me?”

Something strange clouds the young man's eyes, a fearful hope that lights his iris with a pathetic spark. Wash wonders, again, just how bad things are now. 

“Yes,” Wash answers strongly, hoping to clear the uncertainty. 

It works, to some degree. The bartender inflates and the light grows, still an anxious little flame. A sad sort of giddiness crosses his face with a smile, his face even more miserable with it along with the prominent bruising. 

“Oh, alright.” He nods, his hair flopping with the movement.

“It’s just that…” the bartender cuts himself off. A frown, a sad and easy thing, tugs at his lips as he stares past Wash with fearful apprehension. He looks at Wash, the same apprehension in his eyes shrinking his pupils to pinpricks, and sees something. 

“...It’s just that we don't get many… visitors… like you ‘round here.”

Wash doesn’t remember asking, a part of him boils with impatience, the need to get this over with. That part is stomped on with curiosity. The cat is not yet determined. 

“What do you mean?” He prompts, a slight tilt to his head, despite his weaker judgment. 

“Well…” the bartender rolls his head to the side with a sigh, his form deflating, his voice like he’s seen and heard it all before. “you’re about the best company that's been ‘round.”

Wash finds that extremely hard to believe, but he has said before; there are worse monsters out there. 

The young man shakes his head, pain twisting his face. Sadness seems to personify his form as his face morphs like he’s had a realization, a sluggish thing that Wash can’t look away from, a solemn dread sinks his heart down to his stomach. The bartender looks up and the saloon is darker and colder than before.

His voice is tired now. He looks like a whole new man. “Anyways, you wanted to ask me questions?”

Curiosity slinks away and impatience sets in, though a tampered out flame. 

“Have you seen two men coming through here from the east?”

“The east…” The young man jolts and frowns once more. “Um.”

He glances up at Wash, like he wants to answer with the obvious, but he merely stares, eyes squinting with thought. 

“Yeah…” He finally answers, “‘bout a week ago, but… there was three of ‘em”

Wash tries not to get his hopes up. “Do you know what they look like?”

The bartender shakes his head, “Nah, haven’t seen ‘em. One of em’ went to the doctors office but that’s all I know.”

An injury could have slowed them down. And while it doesn’t matter what condition Epsilon is in, Wash doesn’t want him to be hurt. 

“How long have they stayed?”

He pursed his lips, “erm, two days. The last of them left two days before you arrived.”

The young man regards Wash with a head tilt with open concern, looking up and down at the man. “Why are you lookin’ for ‘em anyways? They in trouble?”

Wash frowns at the man, a slight glare furrowing his eyebrows, “That’s not something you need to know.”

The bartender backtracks with his hands up, a tight worrying smile twisting his face.

“Of course.”

“Alright.” 

An awkward silence, a heavier more filled silence than earlier, falls on them. Wash clears his throat.

“I’ll be going then.” Wash says.

He turns and ignores the man’s pitiful waves of a goodbye, striding past the empty seats and the empty cups with a tired purpose. Warmth bleeds into his skin the closer he is to the exit, goosebumps smooth out into flat skin. He spares a glance towards the back of the saloon once. Jimmy is gone from sight. 

The saloon seems more warm and inviting than it did with more people. 

He turns the corner and makes his way for the clinic. 

...

The clinic’s reception had more than vague clues about Epsilon and Caboose’s whereabouts, whispered through cracked lips and gazed upon like a ravaged beast: the clues were told. The woman was sickly and frail, working in a clinic with no doctor or medicine. No stranger than the rest of the town. 

At dusk, the town seemed even more dead. Stepping foot outside, the chill of the setting sun dragged it’s claws over Wash’s skin. Long shadows casted itself over the dirt. The street was empty. 

Wash continues toward the falling sun.

The old woman had said a young man, short and dark haired, had headed off westward, towards the dry stream outside of town. The man could be anyone, and the variables are too general, but it’s a lead nonetheless.

The sun continues to fall and the coyotes and rodents scurry in the deep blue of the night. Wash walks in the footsteps of prey and predator. At times like these, where everything is calm and cool, the pace in his stride nearly sluggish, he thinks. He thinks about how things ended up here. He thinks about his past; how much he can remember- how much he can’t. Who he has lost. The love he has lost. But mostly, in the moment with the moon shining directly down against shimmering sand, he thinks just how stupid he is. 

That may be the answer to the crashing and burning. His stupidity. 

A creature howls into the breeze and Wash dips his head, sighing into the cold nighttime air of the desert and shudders. A lot can be blamed on him, and he tried to make up for it, now he’s stuck playing the ‘good soldier.’

He should have just taken Epsilon’s advice while he had the chance. That way it wouldn’t have to end like this. It wouldn’t be dragged out. 

Also, it would be a lot easier if he had a horse. Things would go a lot faster. Again, his stupidity. 

Wash tugs his sleeves down and shakes off the shivers. 

...

Half an hour of walking leads him to a small rock formation. The dried up creek winds around the farthest side of it and runs down south with eroded sand. A small camp sits underneath an overhang, messy and strewn about with a sleeping mat torn to pieces and tin cans lying empty on their sides. Shredded photos and paper are scattered about, broken bottles twinkling in the wind. 

Many footsteps dig into the sand, deep craters of a heel digging in further the signs of a struggle. A disturbing scene if it were either Epsilon or Caboose’s camp.

Medical items spill from a wooden box, items that are not common amongst runaways- items that are essentially tools of particular practice, none Wash can identify. 

He considers turning back and leaving, to return to the even more miserable sight of a ruined town than hang around the ruined camp. But the bartender had said three men arrived in town at the same time, and whoever owned the camp left at a later date than the other two. Finding this person wouldn’t be a complete waste of time. They could know more about Epsilon’s whereabouts. There was an incredibly slim chance that it could be either of them. 

Wash notes the strange curvature of particular footprints and makes his choice. Examining the clumpy mess of dirt and rock he shivers as another breeze blows past, ruffling his hair. Two footsteps break from the cluster, clear boot marks with no struggle. They head south along the drought.

He salvages what he can from the camp; relatively clean wrappings and hidden alcohol he found in the medicine box. He tucks them away in his bag slung across his chest, tucking it away from his rifle. 

He follows the tracks with a keen eye, noting how it grows bolder the further from the camp he gets. The wind picks up and dirt blows into the shallow craters, making his job harder. 

Ten minutes of walking leads him across the drought- the tracks hardly showing through the compressed sand- and another struggle picks up at the bank. Blood speckled the sand where it wasn't thrashed around. Pieces of torn clothing litter the floor. A large imprint in the sand impacts the floor a few inches away, the form of a body falling where a small amount of blood stained the sand. More of the curved prints dig into the sand, frantic and startled. 

The moon glints off a shiny surface, a beacon pointing him toward a set of eyeglasses. The glass is in shards and the frame is snapped in half. He pops the broken shards out and tucks the split frame in his bag, slinging his rifle out and keeping an eye out towards his surroundings. 

Wash sighs and continues on, hoping whoever owned the camp didn’t get murdered and completely waste his time anyways. He was starting to wonder if the kidnappers frequented the town, if they’re the cause for the uneasiness or damage. If that were the case, then maybe there were more than just a few kidnappers lurking around. He’ll need to be more careful, which just further complicates his job. 

Another creature howls and fatigue eats at him and he walks along the path. More and more rock formations show up, slowly gathering till Wash reaches a large hill, smoke drifting from within. 

He doesn’t realize it’s a valley until he circles around, the opening catching him off guard and he stumbles back, catching the split second light of a fire. This is where that man was taken. Thank you captain obvious, a voice in his head says. He clutches his rifle and peers around the edge, noting the cliff side’s steepness and many rock ledges- vantage points- and spots a limp figure shoved against a boulder, his hands and feet separately tied together. 

He’s in the center of a small camp, their tents in the worst of conditions and trash litter the ground. The state of the camp is the same as the town, if not worse. From here it looks empty, but he can only assume. 

If he goes in now he can take the man and run, but that leaves the downsides of escaping open. If he waits for the kidnappers to arrive, then he could be horribly out-numbered. Though, there are the cliff sides he could take and pick them off from above, if there was more than he was expecting. If. 

He decides that waiting is a waste of time and makes his way into the valley along the shadows, close to the rock walls and eyeing the cliffs as he goes. 

The closer he is the more he can see of the man. His skin is dark, glowing in the fire. His hair is inky, fluffy and framing his titled face. Bruises mark his temple and dried blood runs from his nose. Even more blood stains his clothing, mostly from the top of his shoulder and down to his abdomen. Wash thought that he might be dead if not for the shaky rise and fall of his chest. 

He slips past the rocks lining the walls and crouches close to the man. His bindings are tied tight, close to looking like they’re cutting off circulation. Wash cuts them off and carefully pulls the man onto his shoulder, unsurprisingly light and small. The man’s breath hitches but he doesn’t wake up.

If this man dies during his rescue Wash just might scream out in frustration, getting caught be damned. 

They make it five feet to the exit before voices are heard coming closer.

“Damnit,” Wash hisses, slinking behind a rock, maneuvering the man onto the dirt floor.

Footsteps shuffle loudly the closer they get. Another set of footsteps clop on the ground. A whinney cracks into the air, followed by harsh shushes. 

Wash thanks whomever’s looking over him for this small blessing. 

The man grumbles and shifts, scuffing against the ground loud enough for Wash to cringe. 

“What was that?”

Wash glares at the man.

“Hey! Hey look! The Doc’s gone!”

Wash curses and grips his rifle, listening to the kidnappers rush over to the spot the man was tied up. 

“Fuck!”

“He’s gone-!”

“No fucking shit!”

The man groans as Wash scoops him up roughly, dashing around the rock as quietly as he can and spots the horse immediately. It startles as he runs up on it, neighing loudly as he throws the man onto it’s back. Wash prepares to jump onto it’s saddle.

“He’s stealing the Doc!”

A gunshot rings out, impacting the floor a few feet ahead. The horse cries out and bucks the man off. The man startles awake with a gasp, eyes wide.

“Woah!” Wash tries to soothe the animal, hands raised with his rifle clutched in one hand. 

Another shot cracks and hits the rock wall next to them, spurring the horse to run off and nearly trample the man. Wash dives down to a crouch, shoving the startled Doctor to his stomach.

“Idiots, shoot at them for Christ sake!”

A barrage of bullets pepper the ground around them, pinging off the rock wall. Chips of rock dust his shoulder and Wash curses as some scrap at his skin. 

“Who are you!?” the doctor gasped, “What’s happening!?”

“Stay down!” Wash shouts over the gunshots.

More and more shots ring out, too loud to tell if the kidnappers are getting closer. Wash curses and chances a glance around the wall, counting five before they focus fire. Bullets ping off the edge of where he was as he pulls back.

Two of them were edging closer, and three of them grouped together closer to camp. He takes the two in the front out first then-

“We should just run!” the Doctor says, shaking and pressing his back to the wall.

“Shut up!” Wash growls.

His priority now is taking out the two in the front.

He holds his breath, his finger ready on the trigger, and quickly leans around the edge- aiming for the chest of the closest one on the left. The man shouts and crumples inward, clutching his rapidly bleeding chest. Wash dives back and reloads, burning his fingers on the metal snout in his haste. He hisses and waits, letting the kidnappers waste their shots before leaning back, firing off a shot towards the second one.

He misses. He repeats, hitting the man in the thigh. 

He checks on the doctor, seeing his spot is empty before firing again, hitting the man square in the forehead- he double takes and stares at the man’s empty spot. 

“You’ve got to be kidding.” he growls, his rifle creaks in his iron grip. 

“Move up! C’mon!”

Anger grits his teeth. 

He presses his back hard against the wall, reloading his rifle with a harshness, and waits for the first idiot to walk out. Footsteps mesh with the occasional random shot, loud enough for him to gage how close one is, how fast he’s going. He waits.

The first one pops out, overzealous, and earns a bullet to the side of his neck. Second and third one jump out together, rapidly firing at Wash. Bullets wizz past, one grazing his upper arm before one man gets a bullet to the heart and the other is trampled by a horse. 

Wash startles at this, the horse’s hooves shove the man down, knocking his head against the ground with a crack, and neighs victoriously. It’s rider, that damn Doctor, looks horrified and gleeful- gripping the reins in his tense hands. 

The two men fall to the ground, one of them desperately pressing a hand to his neck and the other twitches in the dirt, nearly dead. 

Wash jumps to his feet and rushes to the bumbling doctor, who struggles off the horse, and shoves him around. The doctor yelps, surprise on his face and Wash is not at all worried. His blood sizzles. 

“Why the hell would you run off in the middle of a gunfight.” he growls, gripping the man's upper arm. 

The man winces, “I, I uh…” 

He glances from the horse to Wash, creasing his brows together.

“Well?” Wash says, shaking the man. 

“I went to go get the horse.” He says quickly, “I didn’t- I don’t-”

Wash releases his arm and sighs, his anger morphing into a headache.

“He wasn’t far…” the doctor justifies quietly.

Wash shakes his head and looks at the dying men. They’re too far gone to question, their eyes already glassy with a promise of death. The one with the bleeding neck gives up in his own bloody mess. Wash wonders if the waste of bullets was worth saving this man. 

“I’m pretty sure you saved my life,” the doctor continues, confidence wary, “and I helped you by accidentally running over that other man.”

Wash isn’t sure if someone could ‘accidentally’ run over a man in the process of murder, post kidnapping. 

“You’re a good man.”

Wash’s stomach drops and he looks at the doctor, his brown eyes sparkling under the moon.

“I’m not.” he says, “and I wouldn't call that saving. I had a reason for getting you out of there.”

The doctor frowns, confusion furrowing his brows. “Then why?”

“Back in Valhalla,” Wash starts, watching as the doctor's eyes widen in alarm, “You arrived by train at the same time as two men.”

The Doctor shifts nervously, looking at Wash in a new way. A way Wash isn’t sure how to feel about. 

“Am I right?” Wash presses on.

“Yes.” the Doctor says.

“And you know them?”

The doctor purses his lips, a sad glossiness washing over his eyes, “I wouldn’t really say that…”

“You do. Do you know where they’re headed?”

The Doctor shakes his head. Darkness shrouds the desert, the moon covered by the same gloomy clouds that loomed over Valhalla. 

“Not really. They mentioned trying to find someone but they didn’t talk to me much. Or want to talk to me…”

Wash cringes at the sadness on his face. A breeze blows past, chilling both men to a short shiver. 

“They went west though, that’s all I really know.”

West. As always. Wash is just glad they’re traveling in a linear path.  
“Ok.” Wash says, “that’s all I needed to know.”

The Doctor really sold out those two, quick and easy, Wash thought. He’s almost curious about what went down there. Almost. 

The horse neighs, reminding Wash of his potential new transportation. He glances at the man and thinks it cruel to just take his horse. This sad, bruised and bloody man. Speaking of…

“Aren’t you hurt?” Wash asks, nodding at the dry blood staining his clothing.

Surprise raises the man’s eyebrows and he quickly looks down and startles at his shirt, stretching it away from his skin and visibly cringing. “Oh.” 

The Doctor shakes his head, “that’s not my blood.” he drops his shirt and looks at Wash with a strange expression, neither sad nor surprised. 

“Alright…” Well then… 

The horse trots between them, asserting himself with a thrashing head. Wash cautiously pats it’s side, it’s grey coat shimmering under the moonlight, coarse and beautiful. It seemed well taken care of judging by the muscle and fat he can feel under his hands. The Doctor did well with maintaining its health.

A few seconds of silence and Wash makes his decision, a churning in his gut that he ignores fiercely, “I’m taking this horse.”

“What?” the Doctor slowly looks at him.

“Valhalla isn’t too far. Northeast from here.”

“What?” the Doctor repeats, voice panicky. “No. You can’t-” he cuts himself off.

Wash silently pats the horse, face and mind forcibly empty. A drop of water splashes the flesh of his hand. It’ll rain soon.

“Take me with you.”

“What?” it's his turn to be dumbfounded.

The Doctor’s face is twisted with many expressions; sadness, worry, mainly despair and all variations. “Please,” his voice waver, “I can’t go back.”

His stomach continues to churn and Wash’s brain burns, staring at the man who’s close to tears and covered in blood, standing in the middle of nowhere with nothing but destroyed belongings and a desert that's about to get rained on. 

“I can- I can offer you assistance, I’m a medic.” he borders on hysteria. Babbling on and on.

Wash’s feeling worsens and he can get a straight face for so long. If the doctor hadn’t been so cooperative then Wash wouldn’t feel bad for leaving him for dead. Right now, Wash wished the Doctor had. There’s no way he can say no, no matter how much he wants to go against it. 

“Fine.” he interrupts. 

The Doctor cuts himself off with wide eyes, Wash stubbornly stares. 

“Oh…” the doctor says softly, “thank you…”

“Don’t.” Wash shakes his head, the feeling eating him up. 

The man’s dark eyes still shimmer as they slowly get to it. He checks the dead bodies for anything useful as the doctor stands awkwardly with the horse, his face slightly disgusted. Maybe if Wash disturbed the man enough he’ll leave on his own. He finds a moldy dollar. 

Maybe he’ll just end up disgusting himself. 

They find one dubious can of vegetables amongst trash and tuck it away in a small compartment attached to the saddle. 

The Doctor asks about the state of his camp and Wash answers truthfully, nothing could be recovered but destroyed items. He ignores the Doctors continuously falling face and mounts the horse, waiting for the doctor to struggle onto the horse’s bare backside. He wrinkles his nose at the coppery smell of blood. They’ll need to fix that soon.

He spurs them onwards, leading them further and further from modern civilization.

His regrets boil under his skin and his thoughts echo in his mind, fatigue from the fight and despair drooping his body. The Doctor yawns but remains still.

A pellet of water hits his cheek. Another hits the tip of his nose. Within seconds they’re hunched under his coat as the sky rains heavily. The desert’s rarest weather falling down in sheets as the moon falls before them.

West. Always west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so taxing and stressful! I'm so happy that I got it done and I hope to the gods that I did it well. I'm very excited to get this fic rolling and done with a fulfilling story. This is gonna be a journey for all of us...
> 
> Also we get to meet Doc, very nice lol. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is very welcome :0


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oml… I am SO s o r r y
> 
> Divers Ed got in the way to the max and I couldn't really work or focus on this for a long time. I started immediately after chapter two but got interrupted 0-0 also, I know the churchington/epsiwash fandom is a small crowd, so I feel bad for offering up such trash writing. I am hoping to improve...
> 
> anyways, please enjoy the chapter <3

Wash never considered the desert to be beautiful. Never really thought of it outside the light of isolated dangers, or land besieged upon like the rest of the country. It was something mysterious, a killer land with fools looking for riches or looting the rich- or just plain fools who suffer under the hand of governments or willful people. 

Although the desert had many aspects of danger, things to fear or avoid, Wash had a feeling he underestimated its dangers. Back up north isn’t a place he considered home, not anymore; with the memories in it’s soil or branded on his skin, mutual scars, or the forbidden feelings lost by death regarding love of all things. Regardless, the north was more populated. It had more means of people and life, and yet it seems more dangerous than here. The south even, for all it’s conditions, seems more dangerous than here. 

There are people in both the north and south, good and bad. There is isolation in the west, good and bad as well. And isolation can take the sanity of anyone.

Wash thinks this when regarding the Doctor’s kidnapping. Maybe those men just couldn’t handle the emptiness of their environment and committed an act of severe injustice. Maybe in the company of manifested paranoia and fear they acted out. Or they were just plain evil, crazy and irredeemable. 

The Doctor himself didn’t seem so bad, though. He wore his heart and opinions on his sleeve, for all it’s vulnerability, and saw a kindness in Wash. A mistake, for innocence to look at a monster and think it so kind, or worth kindness. A boldness that left the monster speechless, impressed even. But, Wash cannot accept this.

“No,” He says. 

The Doctor crosses his arms, a stubborn look in his eye that extends Wash’s irritations. 

“It’s a bullet wound,” the Doctor says slowly, “It needs to be treated.”

Wash does not deserve kindness, a kindness that was not earned, and therefore cannot accept it. He doesn’t understand why the Doctor cannot drop it. Even in the middle of nowhere, with the horse resting peacefully under the morning sun, the Doctor had sacrificed his time to be here. For his own gain, or for Wash’s gain, whatever the case may be- he is here. 

“It doesn't. It’s not a bullet wound. I’ll be fine.”

“If it was caused by a bullet then it’s a bullet wound.”

Wash feels a frown tug at his lips and a furrow in his brows for the logic of what the Doctor said. His wound is hardly a wound. Just an unlucky scratch caused by a very unfortunate shot. It only stained his dark sleeve a little with hot blood. It is absolutely nothing to fuss over. 

“I’m fine.” He repeats, glancing away to avoid the Doctor’s repetitive reactions. Why did he bring him along again?

“No,” the Doctor nearly groans, “You’re not. The wound can get infected, you know. We would have to chop it off.”

This time, Wash glares at the Doctor’s tactics with hardly any heat, but exasperation. 

“Enough,” he’s firm, “we’re dropping this. I don’t need any treatment.”

That’s not even including the small burns on his fingers, but those will be fine as well. If he can’t ignore it’s mere sting then what has he been doing all these years.

The Doctor gestures wildly, throwing his hands around in frustration and glaring at Wash. There is absolutely nothing intimidating about it, maybe a little amusing. 

“You know what? Fine, I’ll drop it for now.”

Wash ignores the ‘for now’ and heads for the horse. It’s coat shimmers beautifully in the sun, a purple-grey that seems exotic. The animal huffs and regards Wash with a glint. Wash has learned that the horse is a near untamable creature, a comical meanness in him that is barely soothed by its owner. Wash has yet to earn its trust. Which is almost relatable when Wash contemplates it. 

The horses saddle compartment had been raided by every scrap. Nothing left in terms of supply or belongings, nothing but crumbs for the mentioned fools. An empty compartment can be useful, but right now it sinks his heart to a miserableness.

He pats the horses side gently. It grumbles a short response. A very neutral response. Hmm…

Wash had a little experience with befriending a tamed horse. Bringing him back to the time with freelancer, memories he stubbornly keeps in line- don’t think about him for the love of god- he remembers a short period where he rode a nicer horse. She had been a beauty; shining dark grey coat and welcoming personality. 

He remembers feeding her, a recommendation from a long lost friend. He had taken it from his palm, the skin of her snout tickling him to giggles, and trusted him right then. Maybe it could be the same for this horse…

He opens his bag and his stomach nearly falls to the floor. Only two cans… two measly cans plus one dubious veggie can… 

That's hardly enough to last them the entire way. Even if he rations them out, they’ll be more than halfway through his supply. Even considering the horse, that's already an entire can. 

His fingers brush the cool metal of spectacles. The snapped frame bringing his mind back to the world. He picks one half out with a delicateness, would the Doctor want these back?

He looks over his shoulder and sees the man staring off- only to glance at him with a pouty stink eye. Maybe later then…

He sighs and drops them, hearing a small clink, and decides to save the feeding for later. He needs to think about this more. 

He turns toward the Doctor, ignoring the lackluster anger, “we need to keep moving.”

They get situated silently, the Doctor holding onto the saddle and Wash on the reins, and move at a brisk but gentle pace. He ignores the prickling skin at the back of his neck and thinks.

…

The Doctor mentions his hunger a little past noon, the sun beating down mercilessly, it’s heat burning his skin with scalding kisses, dehydrating him beyond belief. 

He is struck with a nervousness. A rarity and commonality with conflictions that make him almost sick. 

He hadn’t thought up a solid meal plan yet. He can’t just starve the three of them between the days, can’t deny the Doctor or horse a meal. He doesn’t want to do that. 

The Doctor looks at him, a strange concern morphing his face, an undirected emotion that seems to have no expectations. He stares at his bag and makes a decision. 

“Here,” he says, handing the Doctor a can of peaches, “eat a quarter of it. Drink the juice after you’re done.”

“Thank you,” the Doctor says.

Wash ignores him and takes out the weird veggies. He had examined it earlier with an uneducated look and sniff, and determined them to be healthy enough to eat. He opens the can and offers the horse a handful. The horse looks at it with disgust, then looks at him with disgust, then takes a bite from the pile. His skin is rough, not at all inspiring laughter from the ex-freelancer. Not at all… 

“You’re not going to eat?” the Doctor asks.

“No.” he looks over his shoulder and sees the can still closed tight. “What are you doing?”

The Doctor looks at the can with concern, then looks at him with concern, and still doesn’t open the can.

“Well, I can't open the can.” He says, “and I see that you’re not eating.”

“So?” Wash responds, ignoring the embarrassment swirling in his stomach. 

“You need to eat.” the Doctor says.

That kindness again. 

“I do,” Wash nods, “But I don’t need to right now. I’m alright.”

The Doctor closes his eyes and Wash almost feels bad, if he was wrong for it. He has a plan, a plan that does not include him eating right now. He’ll figure that out later. 

The Doctor’s eyes open, a calmness to them that puts Wash off. 

“You’re going to eat eventually, right?”

“Uh…” Wash trails off. Yes, he’ll theoretically need to eat eventually. He has no choice once his hunger gets unbearable. He can’t just starve in the middle of capturing his lo-

… Epsilon. 

“Why are you so concerned?” Wash says, turning back toward the horse. Chilling goosebumps roll over his skin and he can’t decipher the feeling filling his chest. It’s always a feeling that comes whenever he thinks about him, when the occasional memory crosses his mind. It’s a feeling that’s pleasantly hurtful, something Wash both yearns for and pushes away. 

“I agreed to come with you as your Medic.” the Doctor- Medic?- says. “And right now I am worried for you…”

Wash doesn’t remember agreeing on why the man should come. Only remembering the slight desperate sadness on the Medic’s face and voice. And now the man is worried for him… another feeling shoves against the pleasant-hurtful one. A darker feeling Wash knows well. 

“You shouldn’t be worried. We’re not friends,” He reminds the Medic. 

The Medic sighs, airy and expressive. “Maybe we can.”

Wash’s mind screeches to a halt. 

Friends? Yeah, no way. Wash’s friends are dead. The last one he’s seen is dead in the dirt by the cause of his bullet. That’s not even counting the others he has met after that. Right now, they are enemies, and that's by both his and their doing. 

“No.”

The Medic falls silent. The horse takes the last bit of veggies, leaving a film of whatever they’ve been sitting in on his palm, and turns away, flicking a dark tail. Wash wrings his hand and looks at the Medic.

The Medic is actually full on glaring, and Wash is a little bit stunned.

“You know what? Here,” he tosses the can over and Wash, ungracefully, catches it, “if you’re not going to eat then I won’t.”

The can is warm in his hands. 

A breeze ruffles the Medics hair, cooling Wash’s overheated skin. 

“What?” he says. “Why?”

“Because you won’t eat.” 

Okay… 

Wash sighs at the man's stubbornness, pinching the bridge of his nose at the sudden headache. What's worse is the sharp ache of his wound- the scratch on his arm at the slight movement. He fights down a wince easily and sighs again. Two can play at that game…

“Alright.” He says and shoves the can away to his bag. 

Now the Medic looks surprised, not expecting the turn of events. He falls speechless and Wash counts a victory, walking to the horse’s side and sliding on the saddle. Eating time over. 

The Medic gets on without another word and they move on. 

…

He indiscriminately leads the horse along a faint trail, a trail of tiny feet, keeping his eyes peeled for the quickest of movements or the slightest of discoloration in the sand. 

He had been able to track the Medic because of the heavy steps and rough handling in his trail, and it had been fairly easy to follow. Now, these trails are light and small, hardly creating a dent to the ground. His eyes burn from concentrating so hard on them. 

A breeze blows past, wiping away the lighter prints. 

Wash had a feeling it could be a rabbit. While it’s not the easiest thing to catch for him, it could be the only thing around with enough meat for him to eat. Anything else could be too small, and handling poisonous snakes is not a risk Wash wants to take. 

Fortunately, Wash had brainstormed a meal plan. He would give his canned food to the Medic and Horse, then hunt for himself. It’s not the most sufficient, but it's a preferable alternative to splitting his supply to fractions.

Plus, he’s pretty decent with tracking and hunting. All that time as Recovery One amounted to something other than pain, and even that racked up unfortunate experience. Though, the desert is new territory, new rules… he would have to be careful. 

“What are you doing?” the Medic asks.

Wash jumps slightly at the sudden interruption of sound, and glares forward stubbornly. 

“Nothing.”

The Medic hums and leans back. 

A quietness goes on for several minutes and Wash feels a prickle go up his neck. Unlike a chill. Just why did the Medic want to go with him again?

“So,” the person in question drawls, “we never really introduced ourselves properly.” 

“No.” Wash confirms. There is no need. This will, hopefully, be over soon.

“Well, my name is Frank Dufresne.” The Medic continues happily.

“But my friends call me Doc.”

Wash decides not to comment, and that spurs the Medic into more chatter.

“You know, you can call me Doc.”

He can clearly see what the man is trying to do, what he’s been doing all day. It’s a little grating, and honestly he’d prefer not to call the Medic anything. That's how you grow attachment, and how you get hurt by the end of it. 

“We aren’t friends.”

The man sighs, tired. He doesn’t sound annoyed. “That’s… That’s completely alright. We don’t have to be…”

For some reason, that soothes him. And for some reason, something deep inside Wash is not ok with that; not being friends. He chooses to ignore that fiercely.

Friendship is not worth it.

...for now?

No, not at all. 

The conversation ends there and Wash loses the supposed rabbit trail when it veers away into the brush, never to be seen again. 

A strange feeling takes over. Something inexplicably lighter, more childish- an abandoned instinct resurfaced to wreak havoc on Wash’s person. The talk of friendship, from someone so randomly found, has him in a twist.

He doesn’t want it. He refuses to accept it. Friendship got him hurt, and he hurt people all the same. Friendship is a weighted guilt he has carried. That weight eroded to something purely- surely- sinister. 

How something so mellow such as this has him in such a state is beyond him. It’s completely lost to him. But he can’t get his mind off it. 

So he wondered, briefly and painfully, how it would feel- how he would think- if he revisits love.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so... yeah. I'll try to be consistent with the chapters, but I'll post when I'm satisfied with it. Starting a story is the hardest part and I needed to get this ball rolling before I procrastinated too long.
> 
> constructive criticism is accepted 0-0


End file.
